Woman's Lament

She sits in bed with the television on
And the volume turned down low,
She sits in bed and turns her head,
Tossing it to and fro,

Moved by thoughts of loss and love,
Touching herself in a breathless trance,
A fantasy dance of a queasy sort
With someone she doesn't think much of.

Love goes like that.

It comes and goes in a darkened room,
Bringing up things at an awkward time
And staining the clean white womb,
Turning harm loose on an awkward truce
And shifting the wax in men's ears.

What does she think now,
Now that so many lovers are lost?
Are they all the same, a bit confused,
Or do they each stand out quite clear?

Love goes like this.
The carping wail and waste of words
That scrapes the bone and fleshy shell,
Cuts muscle, and slices veins.

"And I await, each time the same," she sighs,
"These fools that tumble to and fumble so
To unleash their wretched rigid tools."

"Men come and then they go," she sighs,
"And ask such questions in-between that
It's far less tiring to keep our heads
Tossing to and fro,

Moved by a touch
We know and love,
Living in our heads in a private dance
With imagined partners we don't think much of."


rcs.
5th draft: 02/12/06
©1996 Ronald C. Southern

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John J. Plomp: "You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers."

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